Library
by Be3
Summary: Always come back, no matter how many shipwrecks it might cost you. Chapter 2 rewritten. Rating T because Ch 5 is an AU of SPEC and Roylott dies; Ch 6 - title a line from Kipling; drabbles to thwart my writer's block.
1. A library

A/N: there was a prompt by KCS (the quote below). As I'm not in for fluff- or angst-writing, this is the most I could produce…

_A friend is someone who reaches for your hand, but touches your heart.__  
__- Kathleen Grove_

It was with mixed feelings that I breakfasted on that memorable morning half a week before my marriage. Holmes was nowhere to be seen; he embarked upon another investigation the day before, one that "didn't require dragging me from setting everything in order for my impending nuptials". I almost wished he didn't leave me behind; the feast itself was a responsibility of my fair bride and her employer, Mrs. Forrester. I was in charge of a trillion of trifles, some of them never confusing me before. I was constantly checking and rechecking numerous lists of things done, not-yet-done, and never-to-be-done, to the point of dreaming about Holmes presenting Mary with a set of test tubes as a more fashionable substitute to china. To her credit, she never agreed. I, however, found his insistence deucedly taxing and told him so in no uncertain terms.

It was then that he looked at me oddly, poured me a brandy and asked what day it was. When I couldn't answer him (it only slowly dawning on me that _this_ Holmes was real, having come back without me noticing, and one to never willingly part with his precious equipment), he let out a disheartened sigh.

"Sit. Compose yourself, old man, before you order chlorine instead of claret. By the way, I'm afraid I need a break. All this commotion gets on my nerves."

I stood speechless. Was he abandoning me to my fate? He took the Bradshaw from the shelf, leafed through the pages, threw it on my desk, smiled briefly, grabbed a hat and sprinted to the door.

He was.

I recovered my voice.

"Holmes! You aren't going to miss my wedding _altogether_, are you?"

"Not a chance." He waved me off impatiently with his headwear. "I forgot about a matter that requires my immediate attention. Is it ten o'clock, Thursday?"

"Ten _thirty_. Bring the rings!"

But he was already gone, leaving me the only consolation of knowing that on this occasion I was – _had_ to be – more resilient than the most stubborn man in London.

So I sat at the table, alone, to answer Mrs. Hudson's countless questions, half of which I hadn't ever thought to exist in English language. In a fit of childish petulance I didn't peruse the post, plentiful though it was. It would serve Holmes right if he missed something interesting just because he took a vacation in the middle of Armageddon. I knew I could not follow him, but it still felt hollow and unworthy of a friend.

Monday (for Monday it was) flew past, followed by a Tuesday and a Wednesday. A particularly trying Wednesday, I might add, and no signs of my errant best man. I knew better than doubt him, however, had I time for an idle thought; it appeared that my earlier reference to the Doomsday was an apt, if not a welcome one.

As I could have predicted, Wednesday seemed interminable. About five in the evening I left for a constitutional, to clean my head. Evening shadows stretched behind trees, the sun glowed motherly upon children playing in the street. I regretted not taking a book when I left that morning; nothing soothed my nerves better than a few pages of a sea novel and a plate of crumpets, the likes of which a street vendor was selling nearby. I hadn't written a word in days, hadn't turned a page in weeks... Granted, my collection had never been what I wished for, ever since I left Edinburgh. Now, what had been collected by generations of Watsons, went to the auction to cover Henry's debts.

I have always been an avid reader, ever since father taught me the letters. Ah, does one remember one's first primers; a lifetime ago, when Henry was a universally loved little imp, and I his loyal partner-in-crime (crime being an upturned jar or a lost hankie), we boasted our literacy. Not every boy in the town knew how to read; we had an advantage, and we used it. Our pirate plans decorated fences, walls, and pretty much every unmoving feature of the neighborhood. One only had to keep track of new messages.

I sighed. Even in those halcyon days, our main problem was lack of communication.

However, I couldn't dawdle if I wanted to keep pace with the unstoppable train of preparations and to be in time for the actual event the next day. I turned back to Baker Street, still a bit offended by Holmes's betrayal. I had to shop for a new suit alone, and the clerk's comments did nothing to alleviate my sartorial misgivings.

When I reached our lodgings, I could immediately see he was back. There was light in the sitting room; a violin complained to the world of some unspeakable sorrow. I hastened my steps, when the door opened, and out came my beautiful Mary.

"John!" She kissed me. "How good of you to finally come!"

I smiled, tiredness forgotten.

"What brings you here? Are you leaving already? Did Holmes do anything?.."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes was quite polite". She seemed distracted. "And yes, I must away; otherwise, Mrs. Forrester would come to rescue me from your den."

"Pity. She such an attractive lady."

"Until tomorrow, then."

We said goodbye (I couldn't believe it to be the last evening to address her as Miss Morstan). I then caught her a cab and went home.

Holmes seemed jovial, despite the mournful violin improvisation. He didn't offer any specifics about his newest adventure – indeed, his face darkened when I mentioned it, and he grumbled something about boring paperwork and lack of trust. I didn't press for details.

Dinner was awkward. We opted for silence, there being too many things to say. I was mentally going through my morning schedule when he abruptly stood up, wished me a good night and disappeared in his room. I sat for a while, alone again, worrying about future and somehow disappointed with myself.

Thankfully, my mood improved the next day. Holmes was chipper after "a restful night", thus confirming my suspicions of his not taking care of himself in the previous days. How many times will he forego food and sleep in favor of running after some wrong-doer? Conscience gnawed its way through my breast; I had to willingly ignore its hungry cries.

Thus, Mary was highly amused by my stubborn expression as she glided down the aisle.

Formalities finished, we dined in a restaurant (I didn't invite many guests, but I couldn't stop Mrs. Forrester; as a result, we and Holmes were surrounded by a sea of ladies whose weddings, if any, must have taken place a good quarter of a century before) and parted our ways. I slumped with relief.

"Home." Said Mary, and I agreed.

I was a bit surprised, however, to find some unknown packages in the hallway. I turned to my wife (my _wife_!) to apologize as a fresh husband is expected to for any and all troubles on the way to eternal bliss, but she stopped me halfway.

"It is my fault, I'm afraid. Or, shall I say, mine and your dear friend's."

"How so? Oh, anyway, it is of no consequence. We shall unpack them tomorrow."

"Open the topmost one, then."

I tore the string, and my heart surged from the murky depths where it had resided all week as I slowly took out "The Travels of Lemuel Gulliver", the very copy I received for my eleventh Christmas. Behind it, my father's books were neatly stacked in two rows. It looked like the whole library.

I opened Swift's fanciful Odyssey. There was an inscription in Holmes's hand, one that made Mary snort and me blink back a tear of gratitude.

He wished me to always come back home, no matter how many shipwrecks it might cost me.


	2. Double Blind

Disclaimer: the characters are Doyle's, though the style isn't … alas…and ah, I didn't _intentionally_ quote Kipling…

A/N: this is a chapter of a fic I have hopes to unfreeze… it also can be read as "The First Time I Was Immortalized" and an AU for the EMPT, and is compatible with "Library" – well, you have been warned! Enjoy 8)

For me, it all began with a neatly written note.

"Come tonight at 5.30 to Baker St. Important matters to discuss. M.H."

The summons was brought to my consulting-room by an officially looking delivery-boy, one that my maid tried and couldn't describe save that he had "a smart head on his shoulders"; and while usually it would instantly rouse my suspicions - Mycroft Holmes never sent notes - I confess to complying unquestioningly.

For it was April 1894, and if there is anything worse than having lost one's dearest friend so that not even his body could be interred in his native land, undoubtedly it is to disobey his brother on the anniversary of his death.

I didn't send an answer, as Mr. Holmes apparently didn't need one, and resignedly treated my scheduled patients in a (hopefully) polite and harmless way (my wife would have smiled at my efforts, since she never forgot my strychnine panegyric).

The day was as ordinary as a pea in a pod, and yet a gargoyle of unburied grief perched on my shoulder. In my faintheartedness, I craved for a distraction, maybe visiting the crime scene in Park Lane, where, as most of reading population of London surely remembers, a strange murder had been committed several days earlier; but the task of crossing the threshold I thought to be forever left behind in favour of a cemetery bench was too much to play a detective for old times' sake. And so I stayed at home until five, when a cab took me to that fateful address.

The street, despite not having been lived at by a universally known and esteemed sleuth and practical joker for quite some time, looked to me just as it did three years ago, when Mrs. Hudson sobbed into my coat, and told me I was not to blame and to keep my keys.

There was light in the sitting room, and someone's silhouette moving too far from the window to be distinguishable...

I stopped, memories screaming in my face like so many witches proclaiming a king to come. Only he would not, and it was my fault.

The cabby asked if I needed something. I shook my head and entered the haunted house, only to receive a crushing blow from behind. I haven't even thought anything; there was a moment of stupid amazement, a fleeting flash of an ambush, and then everything went black.

***

When I came to, I found myself tied hand and foot to a somewhat familiar straight-backed chair. There was no gag in my mouth, from what I deduced that it would be safer to stay silent. It was difficult to tell how much time has passed; the room - the pantry, judging from the heavyish odour of damp flour - was pitch dark. I had only my aching head to reassure me, with unnecessary insistence, that I was indeed conscious.

The room felt otherwise empty, and after a minute of playing an unfeeling body I tugged at my ropes. They were secured in a way that suggested a diligent, if somewhat inexperienced, abductor whose purpose was more likely not to impede my freeing myself from the offence of being bound to my least favorite article of furniture in the house, but to make the process long and unforgettable. Nevertheless, I set out to do just that, thanking Holmes for teaching me how to untie one's self when one's mobility is limited. I wondered if it wasn't the very chair he used to drum the lesson into my woefully not-criminal head.

I was, so to speak, barely calm; shame, alarm, regret and fear could and would wait for a better time. Random things popped into my mind; who posed for Mycroft Holmes, or, to be exact, for his delivery-boy, and was Mrs. Hudson likewise a prisoner (most likely, she was confined to her kitchen - the good woman rarely left it if a gathering was due and shortbread was expected to be in high demand, so it would be a kind gesture to leave her in a natural environment). Though with so many pointy things in the kitchen, they would not dare...

Eventually, the rope binding my hands to the back of the chair gave in. Chewing through the one holding my wrists together made for a dull, if productive, pastime, and finally I felt blood rushing to the tips of my fingers. After that, I was free in no time; and the very easiness of it filled me with suspicion. I could swear I heard the voice of my late friend, whispering into my ears to not rush things and be careful.

My first concern was to find my former landlady and send her away if she were in any condition to make it - a trick Holmes often pulled at me with varying success. As I knew nothing about the fiendish plot unfolding around us - I could only assume it was some kind of revenge - I wasn't sure if it were more dangerous to leave the building or to stay. And that decision would be a matter of life and death…

It never occurred to me before how exposed one can feel when they enter a room. Certainly a few hairs on my head lost their colour in waiting for any sign that my escape had been noticed; however, nothing stirred, and I noiselessly closed the door. It was weird, to be captured and run away at 221b, Baker Street, a place letters were still sent to with pleas for a - dead - detective's help.

I turned to the front door. No; I couldn't call for help before ensuring that Mrs. Hudson was fine, or at least not in any immediate danger. Searching the flat for its missing owner would be much easier if I had light, or indeed knew that she hadn't been taken away...

Gropingly, I made my way through the rooms, few that they were. The first floor yielded nothing, but there still was a sliver of light from the sitting-room, where the door stood ajar. I picked an umbrella from the stand - thanks to Mycroft, there were not only the old monstrosities Mrs. Hudson insisted on being handy, but also the ones Holmes used when the weather didn't allow him any leeway. I tried to remember how to fence with it - another survival technique my friend for some reason forbade me to describe in my stories; it still seemed juvenile, and so I crept upstairs, ready to duck from a bullet or a knife.

What I wasn't ready for, was my bust in Holmes's armchair, gagged, draped in Holmes's gown, and set upon a pole so the head was raised higher then it naturally would be and inclined as if in exhaustion.

And then, I heard a throat being cleared right behind me.

***

Reflexes spun me around, and the umbrella's tip stuck. Holmes must have sharpened it, I thought in mortification, going red in the face and stepping back so nobody could creep on me from behind.

The man smiled tentatively, as if mistaking my embarrassment for fury. I was fairly sure we had never met before. There was something of "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" in his face, hidden in the shadow. There was also a revolver in his hand, a most valid argument when you are only three yards apart.

- Dr. Watson? - He whispered hopefully.

- Who are you? And what is the meaning of all this? - I whispered back, letting go of the unwieldy thing beginning to rip the carpet, but he blanched at the soft _thump_ and tried to look past me.

The man was experienced enough not to allow me access to his trembling Webley even for this split of second. Later, I was told that being a full-time member of a criminal organization fasters certain stereotypes that tend to come in useful in awkward situations.

Apparently, he was satisfied with whatever didn't happen, because he lowered his revolver fractionally, turned to me and mumbled gravely:

- Hush, until the glass is broken.

By this time, I had had enough.

- Where's Mrs. Hudson?! And what is all this about?

- The lady is in her bedroom. She's not hurt, I swear. I only made sure she doesn't leave it until we all are safe. - Here his voice broke, and I believed him - instinctively and forever believed him to be the victim. He was younger than I supposed, and terrified out of his mind.

- Is there a place where you can explain to me the meaning of all this? - I asked somewhat more dryly than I used to, the bump on my head making me irritable and weary.

- We can't miss the shot, - apologized he. - If it is fired, and we don't know... or if it's not - I'm a goner, Doctor! You probably can hold your own against a gang of the worst thugs in London, - _the_ gang, actually, - but me - they'll tear me to shreds!

- Fi-ine. Then if we can't miss - the shot, is it? - we'll just go here, and sit, and you will tell me everything about what is going on?

He grabbed my arm so suddenly I recoiled, and was painfully reminded of the wall I chose as my rear-guard.

- WE CAN'T! Dr. Watson - we can't move from the spot! Promise me you won't, please? Or he will have my hide, if you get yourself killed tonight.

It was odd - his begging voice and his incongruously alert eyes and twitching ears. He was not mad - though for some time I entertained the notion; or if he were, there was a method to his madness - I clearly saw the barrel of the gun never swerving from my general direction. I slowly sat down near the threshold. He did the same, only so that he could peek inside, and nodded to me to continue.

- Explain. Why. And who. Is behind. All of this?

- Why! Mr. Holmes, naturally.

He chuckled at some private joke.

- He is always behind... there's nothing he isn't...

There was no chance of me interesting Mr. Myctoft Holmes in such capacity so he couldn't see me in more comfortable accommodations, I thought.

- Well. So he ordered you to come here, strike me, tie me, lock Mrs. Hudson, pose a - bust, I suppose, - in Holmes's armchair... is there any purpose to all this mayhem?

Something made his eyes narrow while I spoke, and then widen.

- You really - don't know?

- Really, - I agreed, curbing my impatience. - Pray enlighten me of whatever it is I don't know.

He hid his Webley in his hip pocket and pursed his lips.

- Ah. I can't tell you my name - forgive me, Doctor, but if we're still alive by dawn, one word of yours will ruin my - precarious position...

- I can see how you don't relish that outcome.

- Hee, hee...

- It wasn't what I asked you about, as well you know.

He hunched miserably. I felt the back of my head; a bruise.

- You said there would be a shot. Who is the target?

- Nothing to worry about! We only wait for the glass to break, and then you will blow this, - he showed me a police whistle. – 'Tisn't poisoned.

- Thank you. I appreciate your concern.

- And when they bring Colonel and - Mr. Holmes - here, I slip out and you never inquire about me.

He must have come to his senses, to remember a word like "inquire". A slim fellow, balding, obviously short-sided... an illustration of "ordinary".

I decided to play along. It would be easy to overpower him - but while I wasn't aware he had a confederate somewhere nearby, it didn't mean there wasn't one. How I wished for my friend's advice!

- Colonel?..

- Moran. Colonel Moran. He shot the Honorable Ronald Adair.

- What!

- With his rifle - his _air-gun_, - here his words became jumbled and hurried. - And he thinks he'll have you murdered by it, too.

I leaned at the banister, as tired as I have ever been.

- But I won't be.

- No! 'Course not! That is what the thing is for, - he glanced back inside.

- He will shoot _this_?

- It's enough if he breaks the window...

- Why?

- Because then it will be an assault! But he won't miss; he's the best marksman I ever heard of.

- Reassuring... Does it mean we are to wait for his attempt?.. Why _is_ he so interested in my death?

His whole body jerked.

- Because... because... he blackmails Mr. Holmes with it.

I was flabbergasted.

- Heavens! We must stop him!

- No! I meant... he _is_ blackmailing Mr. Holmes with it _right now_.

- Good Lord!

- I'm sure he has everything under control, - he finished lamely.

And then we heard a faint jingle, and he hurled the whistle at me and made a dash down our seventeen-steps-long stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. I blew it mechanically and hesitated whether to go after him. A look into the room proved that he at least didn't overestimate this Moran's prowess; my double now had a hole in his wax forehead.

There was a commotion outside, lights flashing through the opposite building's empty windows. I shook myself, grabbed a poker and ran there with little regard to my own safety.

It was packed with police, someone was struggling ahead of me, but as I was recognized they parted, and finally I came face to face with two people I never expected to meet that evening.

One of them I didn't know, and it must have been the Colonel. He was held by several constables, and Lestrade – how didn't I recognize him at once? – was merrily handcuffing him, so engrossed that he didn't even turn when everything quieted around them.

The other was Sherlock Holmes.

***

There are different fractions of seconds.

When you block a blow with a bayonet, there is a moment of two weapons colliding and bouncing; no matter how strong your hands, you can't guess the force of the impact.

When you look into a comrade's eyes to see if life hasn't left them, there is this terrible - though routine - indecision.

I had once been quite used to both these varieties, but rarely did they coincide. I peered in his face, but it was poorly lit...

- Holmes...

My voice broke the spell. Moran stilled, Lestrade jumped, and the man with a strange metallic construction in his hands swore in the voice I would recognize anywhere. I stepped forward, numbly.

- Ah. You are one lucky man, Doctor, - remarked the Colonel, looking for all the world like some mediaeval duke offering hands for the rabble to kiss. Lestrade straightened out, tugging at the derbies.

- Good and proper, - he muttered, and glanced awkwardly at me and at the ghost on the floor.

- Holmes?.. - I made another step, the poker clanging down from my unfeeling fingers.

- Why are you here?.. Oh damn, damn, _damn_! - He threw the thing away. His face was pinched; I fancied I saw irritation, worry, and - fear... It was too much; I might have gone raving mad, but to have _him_ loathing me was worse than I could imagine. I staggered, and someone righted me.

- Because obviously, foolishness is infectious... – Moran drawled, staring at the shadow of my gagged tweedledum.

Holmes hit the wall with his fist, snarled something to Lestrade, grabbed me by my right shoulder and propelled outside. I didn't resist. I heard they are gentler if you don't resist, and I hoped to be spared the indignity of a strait-jacket.

- What are you doing here at all! You had no business in coming... I will throttle that vermin MYSELF! - He screamed. - Come; let them take care of the rest. No, Lestrade, come tomorrow…

- Holmes...

- I apologize for my rudeness; it is only out of consideration to your safety, dear friend, that I'm incensed so. Come, Mrs. Hudson will worry.

I waited at his side while he chose one of his skeleton-keys.

- Ah! You neglected to lock it, how careless, - there was a strain in his voice. I watched him checking for an ambush and suddenly, it was more than I could bear. I laughed as I never did before.

Holmes yanked me inside and deposited near the stairs to our sitting-room, barricaded the entryway, and dragged me upstairs. His face was drawn in a rictus of despair and irony.

When it became clear that my hysterics were in no way subsiding, he forced a glass of whiskey down my throat, nearly drowning me in the process. That had the desirable effect of calming me down a notch, though he himself grew even more agitated. Unable to meet my stare, he fled to rescue Mrs. Hudson. In a minute, I heard their raised voices. It meant either that my hallucinations were progressing – a reasonable if not pleasant explanation – or…

But I didn't want to dwell on the other possibility.

However, life rarely follows our desires.

- Here you are, - said Holmes, bringing a towel and a pitcher of water. – I assume that Porlock wasn't overly considerate in his haste…

He stopped mid-sentence, and for a minute we both were silent. Than I asked, more steadily than I thought possible:

- Is it really you?

He dipped the towel in the water, and gave it to me.

- Yes.

***

Later, when the sky was already graying, we sat near the fireplace. Not a word was said after his admission. I was tired, but I didn't want to forget this miracle even for a couple of hours. Of course, I didn't know what to do with it, either. It felt – hollow, somehow, like I prepaid a costly book, and then saw it in another shop for a tenth of the price.

Finally discarding his briar pipe, he stood up and addressed me.

- You would like to hear my reasoning behind this – charade?

I nodded. If anything, it would help me to stay awake… soon I would have to go…

- I have been hiding for the last three years, - he briskly stated. – To come back, I needed to secure the last member of Moriarty's vast organization still at large, the despicable Colonel Moran. I couldn't do it alone, especially since he knew I was after him. Fortunately, I had an ally in the gang, a fellow by name of –

- Porlock, - I mumbled.

- The very, - he jerked his head, seemingly impatient with the interruption. – He had to place your sculpture in the armchair, and to ensure that despite any Colonel's moves, you yourself would not become involved.

- He attacked me.

- I suppose he wasn't sure who it was he attacked… Moran found a way to lure you –

- I received a note by "M. H." –

- Yes, yes, that would be most convenient. So here you came, to the very house in all of London where I specifically _didn't_ want you to turn up –

I caught myself standing.

- Oh, forgive me, my friend, I wasn't angry with you –

I was shaking, deafened by the wailing crescendo in my breast. There were no words he could say to appease me; not that he realized the fact.

- Watson! Hear me out. Had I not ambushed him yesterday, you most probably wouldn't be alive tomorrow!

I sat back. I could listen; I owed him that much.

- Briefly, Moran shot Adair from the opposite window – clever dog, he is – and prepared to negotiate with me. We had to meet in the house across the road – his choice, though fortunately I knew what he had in mind; taking you hostage and killing in cold blood before my eyes.

He tucked his hands in his gown's sleeves. There was a pause before he resumed his story.

- Naturally, he would not attempt shooting you himself; it would be far below his intelligence, which I've learned to take into account during the last years… He positioned a sniper. The man hadn't the steadiness usually required to beat one's mark. It was his loyalty that Colonel trusted.

Holmes smiled crookedly.

- I can't help wondering how it would go if Moriarty didn't present Porlock to Moran as his most reliable henchman.

- He gave you the rifle? – I half-stated.

- Exactly. Colonel was rather surprised with me overpowering his hidden help. Nevertheless, when I shot your bust – a beautiful thing, isn't it? – and we heard the whistle, he knew it was over.

- You – shot?

- Someone had to. He proved deucedly uncooperative… At least Porlock had enough time to escape.

- He would have had more, had I remained where I was.

He sighed.

- There's nothing for it.

Silence descended upon the room, and then he spoke again.

- You don't know how many times I regretted not letting you know about my survival. There were times when I bought _Times_ instead of tobacco or bread. Once I let myself be kidnapped, to miss the steamship to England…

- It must have been difficult, - I agreed evenly.

He stared in the distance, and I didn't know what part he assumed I was playing.

- An ugly feeling... I can only hope you will never have to choose between worse and worse, without any idea about the consequences.

Anger blinded me for an instant, and then I understood – ground my teeth, but understood. I stood up and went to place the pitcher on the table.

- Of course.

He flinched.

- I know what you mean, - I continued in the same light tone. Somewhere in the back of my mind, conscience was raging; but this was no time for conscience. Were it so, I would probably shake some reason into the fool... and then flee to burn my journals, where our friendship once existed.

- Watson...

I clenched the tabletop, refusing to meet his eyes. He made it easier by lowering them, for which I was thankful, as only a man intending to go in a minute and never return can be. There were wrinkles where my fingers dug in; it looked like our landlady'd taken out her finest linen to celebrate Holmes's return...

- Forgive me...

I didn't, ever. But when he touched my shoulder, I'm afraid I rumpled his shirt as badly as the tablecloth, because nothing could break my shaking embrace.


	3. Three witnesses

A/N: we all take it for granted that Mrs. Mary Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes have forged a working relationship, revolving around Dr. Watson, but how was this relationship forged? And Lestrade, well, he just wrote himself here. I am sorry for possible Lestrade-abuse. And I messed with the timeline, **so this is kinda AU**, but a really singular affair, nonetheless.

Barely week before our first anniversary, Mary, planning the big event, asked me if we should have guests for the dinner.

'Why not,' I laid down my morning newspaper. 'I rather think it only proper for Holmes to be with us on the occasion.'

'Oh, certainly. I meant other people. Perhaps you wanted to invite someone?'

'Anstruther would be glad to attend,' I said at length. Even after years of living in London, I had few acquaintances outside of my club and Holmes's line of work, and frankly, most of them were not who I'd gladly greet in my home on that special evening. I remembered the case in Dover we'd only just come back from, and shuddered anew. 'Maybe some of your friends?'

Mary picked up her cup. I drank in the sight of her, so young and pretty; that mischievous curl of her lips and glint in her eyes which spoke of a surprise brewing.

'I would like to meet Mr. Lestrade.'

To say that I was surprised would be an understatement.

'Lestrade? But you don't even know each other!'

'He will provide a unique perspective,' she said by way of explanation, and I, mystified, fulfilled her request.

And so, it was four of us at the festive table, and I was feeling progressively ill at ease.

The dinner was a solemn affair, if not downright stifling. Both our guests were surprised to meet one another, and not pleasantly, at that. Holmes grew steadily moodier, and in proportion to the worsening of his humour, his appetite soon deteriorated into nibbling onto the same piece of kidney pie for minutes at a stretch. Lestrade staunchly progressed through courses, properly thanking the hostess in a strained voice. I avoided their gazes, and only Mrs. Mary Watson was genially enjoying herself.

The dessert came. Lestrade stood up and was already going to extricate himself from further socializing, when Mary announced that we should play a game she prepared.

"She has you under her thumb," Lestrade telegraphed me with a universally understood grimace. I could only shrug helplessly. A year into marriage, I was still hopelessly smitten with my wife.

Holmes appeared glad of some distraction.

'And what game is that, madam?'

'An interesting one, Mr. Holmes. Will you be able to deduce what an object's designed for, given a description of it?'

'Depends on the description.'

'Well, then, will you trust John's and Mr. Lestrade's accounts?' She persisted.

Holmes squinted at us, clearly debating the point with himself, and when the silence became too awkward, he finally acquiesced, to our private relief.

I noticed that the Inspector was regarding Mary with a touch of awe, or maybe even fear, and then I noticed how tightly I was gripping my cup. Women. How do they _do_ it?

Mary stood up and went into my study, returning presently.

'The rules are as follows: one person at a time, Mr. Lestrade and John go into that room, look at – something, leave it exactly as it was, come back and describe the object. They are not allowed to draw it, only to compare it to something of similar shape. Of course, gentlemen, if you know what it is, you may name it,' she smiled, obviously not considering it possible.

Lestrade's brow glistened with sweat. Inwardly, I prayed for Holmes to drop the challenge.

Holmes, looking more alive than he had in the last two hours, readily accepted.

And on went Lestrade, volunteering himself with a true policeman's dedication. When he strutted back, he was more like his usual self, though I had an inkling that that was not an improvement.

'I've seen such things,' Lestrade drawled, ogling my wife with professional interest. 'In the Scotlandyard museum. They are rare these days, thank God. How would you happen to own one of them?'

Mary's face went from excitement to bewilderment, and then to amusement.

'It is not what you think it is, Inspector.'

'Not what I think, eh?'

'Are you implying it is a torture device?' She asked calmly.

'What else can it be? Pretty sharp, too.'

'Well, it's not, I promise. Pick something else.'

'Tin opener.' He grumbled. 'A troll might just use it to unscrew a full body-armour.'

Holmes was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes agleam.

'May I ask a question?'

'No,' Mary shook her head, a childish habit I found irresistibly endearing.

'Elise!'

Our maid entered and blushed under three piercing gazes of men and a smug one of a woman. It was a safe bet that she didn't know what was happening.

'Elise, could you go into the study, please?'

'Yes, ma'am.' The girl turned to leave.

'There is an item, wrapped in green silk. Unwrap it, look at it very attentively, re-wrap, put back, and come here.'

Elise curtsied, frowning slightly at the oddness of it, and went to do as she was told. We heard her pause, and then – nothing.

Lestrade cleared his throat with the air of a condemned man. 'I rather think, madam, that you shouldn't subject the poor young girl to such a view –'

Mary arched an eyebrow, and he subsided into glaring mutely. Holmes was absolutely still, a wise strategy I hastened to copy.

'Could she have fainted?' Lestrade suggested feebly.

'No,' Mary said with finality. Elise chose that moment to come back. She appeared none the worse for wear, if a little flustered.

'Well, dear? What was it?'

'I don't know, ma'am.'

Mary smiled encouragingly.

'Does it bear any resemblance to anything?'

'It's an iron statue… it's like a frond of some fern, when it's young and green…'

Lestrade harrumphed, and Holmes pursed his lips. Elise blurted out, upset with her own inability to find words: 'It's two hooks wielded together!'

'Impossible,' Holmes muttered. 'No, it can't be… Does it resemble a skeleton key?'

'What!' Lestrade jumped, turning his disapproving glower towards the oblivious sleuth.

Elise blinked, and Holmes, sighing in frustration when he couldn't find one in his pockets, gesticulated with his hands and a pair of teaspoons for key's tooth. She shook her head.

Lestrade attempted to rearrange the cutlery to look more like 'the contraption for raking flesh off the bones'. The result was, strangely, so inappropriate that I had to cover my mouth with a napkin and bite the inside of my cheek; Holmes's eyes bulged, and he sputtered. Mary was giggling soundlessly, her own eyes tightly shut, tears of mirth rolling down her face. Elise was trying to help Lestrade, but he waved her off, and she excused herself to the kitchen.

'Teaspoon,' Holmes mused aloud. 'What a weapon. I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.'

'We don't have a king cobra with two necks there, do we, darling?' I asked with some anxiety, more to find a less unprintable alternative to what Lestrade was gradually understanding he had just designed, if the rich scarlet colour of his face was anything to go by.

Mary composed herself with some difficulty.

'No, dear, it's completely harmless. Why don't you look for yourself.'

I confess to some trepidation as I eagerly entered y own study and saw the infamous bundle, lying innocently atop my evening paper.

Inside it was the ugliest device I've ever seen.

The thing, heavy and cool to the touch, was a cross between a wrench unbent by some incredible force and an oversized template for a peg box of a violin, carved into a yet more peculiar shape; it had more angles and curves. No matter which way I turned it could I fancy it being attached to a neck of any stringed instrument. It was a mad paleontologist's nightmare.

And yet, it had an undeniable, impossible, mutilated-streamline sense of purpose. My hackles rose, and I put it back on the worn cloth when I thought of what that purpose could be, and I blessed Elise's innocence.

I staggered back to the company.

'Watson? Speak up, man!'

'I've never seen anything quite like it,' I honestly replied.

Holmes fairly wailed with frustration.

'We know it's metal! Unless it's molten, it _has_ to have some shape!'

'Do you give in, Mr. Holmes?' My wife sometimes is positively devious.

He caught my eye and nodded in defeat. Lestrade managed to erase gloating from his features, earning my undying gratitude.

'Go, then, you may look,' Mary conceded, and go he did. An indignant shout was our clue that he found the odd thing, and a particularly dismayed note – that he knew exactly what it was.

'Watson! How dare you open my mail?'

'I didn't,' I retorted, irked by this unfair accusation. Holmes emerged, brandishing the monstrosity and brimming with righteous indignation.

'Then how do you explain this?'

'I'm afraid it's my fault, Mr. Holmes,' Mary intervened. 'I had to receive the parcel when you both were absent from London last week.'

'Ah! Dover murder.'

'The courier was most insistent. I signed for the delivery, and then, naturally, I opened it, and… Will you forgive me, Mr. Holmes?'

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then, miraculously, agreed.

'It would have been a much more boring evening, had I declined your invitation. You are forgiven, Mrs. Watson. However, please bear in mind that not all of what is sent to me is as harmless, and most of it is far more urgent. Am I understood on this point?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But what _is_ it?' Lestrade burst. Holmes smiled ruefully.

'A crutch, Inspector. A _forcola_, used for rowing Venetian style, only made from steel and aluminium, not the traditional walnut trunk.'

'Aluminium? Why, it must cost a fortune!'

'It does.'

'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Why do you need it, Mr. Holmes? You're not turning into a gondolier, are you? And where's the second one? And why aluminium? I heard it's brittle!'

'No, Lestrade. It's not for me, it's for a client of mine who reconstructs all kinds of Venetian boats and displays them in his private museum. Unfortunately, while he doesn't allow the visitors to row, they are understandably impressed by these curious devices. We decided to install one metal crutch instead of two wooden to discourage them from breaking the things and taking the pieces "for luck", and the aluminium coating is supposed to lessen its susceptibility to weathering. Ever heard of corundum?'

'Weird,' Lestrade summarized.

'Unorthodox, probably. Herr Von Herder, the German who made this for me, was thrilled to try his hand at something so difficult.'

'Why?' asked Mary, for his tone was pensive in the end.

'Just… he has never been to Venice, or so he claims.'

We returned to the table, and soon enough, it was time for us to say goodbye to our guests.

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes,' Mary said sweetly, giving him his hat, while Elise gave Lestrade his.

He bowed his head, and I, standing to his right, saw that his mouth quirked, despite all his inhuman will. He kissed her hand reverently.

'No, milady, thank _you_.'

And with that, they departed, Lestrade's shoulders quivering under his heavy coat, and Holmes's bark of laughter scattering the pigeons from the pavement.


	4. Four genuine articles

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. And I don't parody it, either. (thank you, reflekshun, for betaing me out:))

**A/N**: I'm not sure about the timeline. And it is AU in that sense that Watson's wife and child are alive when Holmes returns after his Hiatus. And it is _fluffy_. My reputation is ruined… and ff is being uncooperative...

The Four Genuine Articles

1887

'And now, a story.'

**Gurgle. Sigh.**

'I don't know any fairy tales. I shall tell you nothing but the truth.'

**Gurgle!**

'It always is. Pray, let me think for a moment; if I am mistaken, and you do retain memories of this conversation...'

**Gu-urgle?**

'Indeed. So. Once upon a time, there was a Needle...'

_And the Needle was sharp, and shiny, and always seeking to penetrate the Heart of the Matter, for he was very Inquisitive. And he whirled, and flew this way and that way, and even got Lost occasionally, but got Found every time. The Needle was also quite Flexible, and never broke under Strain, though by the end of his career it became Tremendous; not your average Needle, no. His flawless Stitches followed a Pattern others rarely saw until it was completed; he loved to make Intricacies look Simple._

'But the Needle, he was lonely, to the point of going halves. It was a bright day indeed, when a, hmm, Splinter of his acquaintance introduced him to a Sack...'

_The Sack was full of Great Qualities. He had just returned from the Marketplace, which the Needle deduced from the dash of flour upon his otherwise, ah, grimy front and a recent tear in the cloth; and it was Plain to anyone the Sack had seen his fair shair of Hard Use, and then some._

_'Hammers above!' thought the Needle to himself. 'If ever I meet the Smith, I'll tell Him that Metal isn't the only Substance of Worth, after all.'_

'And they became friends, and had many adventures...'

_A number of said adventures were brought to them by either a Poker or Fire Tongs, whom the Needle regretfully called Scotland Yard's finest. It was an Insult, but they didn't begrudge him his little breach of etiquette, for he didn't address them thus directly._

'And then one day, the Sack met a Pillowcase.'

**Gurgle...**

'I beg your pardon, _the_ Pillowcase. She was white, and lovely, and one button short of the ensemble - evil Scissors with one blade broken stole it. They looked for the button in every Nook and Cranny, but couldn't find; but the Sack said, he liked her all the same.'

_And they married, and lived happily ever after, and didn't forget the Needle, who reveled in his work and remained Stainless. Or he tried his best._

'And one day, there was a Pillow inside the Pillowcase. A squishy piece of fluff, a bit on the pale side, but that is easily corrected with a week of - embroidery in the country. Shall I talk to your father about it, sweetheart? I thought so. Now, it's time to say 'The End.''

**Gurgle...**

'Every story has to end somewhere. Sleep, child; someday, you will tell me how it continues.'

1894

'I imagine John Jr. is all grown up.'

'So he is.'

'Another Dr. J. Watson.'

'No, he'd actually never seen himself as such. Strange thing, Holmes; my son aspires to be a chemist.'

'Flattered as I am, I assure you, dear chap, that I've yet to preach Science to thine scion. Why is he so inclined?'

'Some fascination with rubber. Says it goes on forever... Holmes?'

'...It might, too.'

_It just might._


	5. The Five Suggestions

The Five Suggestions (or, life has nothing on literature)

Thank you, reflekshun, I've corrected the 'portent'!

Warnings: Slight AU SPEC. Holmes is probably OOC.

The tea was strong, the room airy, and the fumes wreathing from Holmes's pipe as bitter as ever. The overall picture was so ordinary, I had to remind myself we weren't holidaying... It occurred to me, as I was standing before the darkening pane, sipping the tepid beverage and being stared at by my own puzzled ghost, that between us Holmes was the man of action.

'Impossible!'

I jumped. His ejaculation seemed to galvanize the day, which had begun so dramatically and then wilted down into the monotony of a rustic hostelry.

'Whatever do you mean?' I retorted. I was dulling my fingernails on a cake I'd bought at the railway station. Never again shall I forget Mrs. Hudson's sandwiches. The thing had been baked, or possibly carved out, and then dried, to polish gemstones. It gave as good as it got, grinding one's teeth and cutting one's gums before succumbing to the inevitable victory of being spat out.

'That he be so reckless.' Here Holmes described an all-encompassing arc of smoke.

I turned the gas down a bit; the reflection was already too bright to see the black hull of Stoke Moran clearly.

'Dr Roylott, from what little I had seen of him, didn't strike me as particularly sound in mind.'

'And yet the man is a scientist. There are rules for keeping such dangerous pets, and he has been following them for years.'

I swept a cockroach from the sill. In actuality, the room was draughty rather than airy. The lower the sun sank, the sharper the wind grew.

'Yes, I remember your arguments, and indeed, a snake springs instantly to mind.'

'You and your metaphors,' he grumbled amiably.

'Furthermore...'

I hated what I had to say next, but it was only logical, and I knew that Holmes, of all people, wouldn't disapprove of stating a logical inference.

'Except for killing it on the spot... I fail to see how I can help you tonight. Its poison must be too potent; I wouldn't be able to do anything.'

'That, my dear, is why I insist on you staying here.'

'You know I shan't.' For a moment I contemplated doing exactly that. And I knew he knew I did.

Ms. Stoner was, by her frank admission, thirty-two years old, had been terrorized for years, and had no reliable relatives; compared to us, the girl was a ray of sunshine.

'How do we do it?'

Holmes stretched, his right fist missing the wardrobe's door by an inch, his left one less fortunate if more precise. The thing creaked on its hinges as he shook his knuckles.

'Blast! Haven't I asked you to close it?'

'It can't be closed. It should be nailed shut.'

'Morbid.'

'How do we do it?'

Looking on him, there couldn't be anything easier.

'I suggest waiting and disposing of it then and there.'

Disposing was killing without getting bitten. I hoped there were no more surprises for us poor breaking and entering devils.

'How does he intend to retrieve it?'

'What?'

'The snake. I imagine it so: he takes it out, gives it milk.'

Holmes's whole face twisted, and I myself was tempted to laugh at the image.

'I rather suspect the milk is used to attract mice, and mice are then fed to the...'

He drifted away, his look vacant but sharp.

'"Creature" would do. Feeds it mice, dumps it into the hole - _up_ the hole - it becomes enraged - I would - attacks... And whoa! Two male corpses for the price of a female one!'

'You certainly do not lack imagination. Hmm. It must be difficult to put a poisonous snake into the vent so high in the wall.'

'He could have learned using dead ones. Or fake, for that matter.' The important thing, as far as I saw it, was that he had, not how he went about it.

Holmes clapped his hands and let out a whoop of joy.

'Fake! That's it!'

'Really?'

An imitation of a snake (or so I hoped), a man who bends pokers for the sake of rhetoric, no police within yelling distance. Gypsies free to roam anywhere, anytime, able to move unaccounted for bodies with them. And no witnesses; the girl would not be spared afterwards.

Holmes's irises flashed red.

'It is quite simple. Have you ever tried catching a wild mouse? Have you tried training a reptile? And I suggest we limit the death rate to one casualty at worst.'

'Bless you.'

'Fear not, my friend, it must be the explanation. Look! Ms. Stoner's candle. Come, then, to slay the dragon!'

Our hasty retreat from the premises had the host glaring at us with distrust; this close to Roylott's abode people tended to stay at home after dusk. Those who didn't either were not right in the head or had some business that couldn't bear the daylight.

And Holmes, his fervour and appreciation for airs aside, had not impressed the man as a loony bin.

'Good night, good sir.'

He grumpily let us out at our own peril without a word.

We ran behind trees, shrubs, other invisible and sometimes mobile obstacles, and at long last broke into Ms. Stoner's current chamber.

'Now, sit very still -' Holmes had to bodily prevent me from bolting forward when his voice materialized near my very ear. 'When you hear a whistle, take this and aim with all of your marksmanship at the thing to emerge from the vent. You will have one shot. Watson, I don't speak of... You must know... '

'I do know, I do.'

'I took your dessertspoon to obtain silver nitrate.'

'...I wasn't aware I missed it.' He dissolved my little dessertspoon. The dream of every visiting Irregular.

'Shh! Our vigil has begun.'

It had, as it were.

The only thing, which makes the thought of it bearable, is that nothing, nothing in my entire life can be quite as jarring as this single wait.

It was nearly midnight when the man in the other room began to do something noisy, and by the sound of it, detrimental to furniture.

'He's drunk,' Holmes hissed helplessly. 'The moron's drunk.' I elbowed him, hitting the cane in the dark.

It clattered on the uncarpeted floor. A hand clamped on my forearm with enough force to cut out the circulation.

We froze.

'Sleep, my dear,' bellowed the Doctor, who had apparently moved to the vent to see what had happened to his stepdaughter. That he couldn't see it through the twice-bent pipe didn't faze him in the slightest; he still felt compelled to be supportive. 'Want me to come over and kiss you good night?'

Holmes's hand shot out, but a plan had already hatched in my brain, and I answered brazenly.

'Yes, Dr. Roy-_mmmph_.'

Holmes groaned. Roylott growled.

'You have you a man there, m'dear? What will your little upstart of a fiancé say? Imagine that!'

In his diatribe glee prevailed over indignation.

'Correction,' I shoved Holmes off. 'Ms. Stoner is not here. We require a ransom if you ever want to see her again.'

'Do you? Or, rather, do I?' Roylott paused, mulling over my proposal. Beside me, Holmes quivered with frustration.

''Of course you do. What would people say?'

'Nothing will be proved! I will not be accused of this!'

'It will, Doctor, it will. She was in London yesterday, wasn't she? Went to that know-it-all with her trouble. We have enough resources to frame you for a nice ole'-style hanging,' I spied some movement above, a passing shadow, and cocked the gun. Holmes took it out of my hand. I didn't resist.

'You armed? How much?'

'So we are.'

'He's stalling,' Holmes breathed out.

'How much, I say?'

'Seventy pounds,' Holmes suggested. 'Seventy pounds!' I called out.

'Let me see.'

More movement and shadows, than some clinking, whistling - and Holmes fired my Webley without any warning.

Something ugly, spider-like fell off the vent, and a shout of rage informed us that our villain had also been apprised of the situation.

'Thieves! Blackmailers! Help, people! Help!'

Holmes lit up a vesta. In its sizzling light we saw a tiny humanoid monster sprawled on the bed, a gleaming chain running from its collar into the hole in the wall.

'A monkey,' muttered the detective. The vesta gleamed off the dark pooling blood and sputtered out. Only then did we remember our host.

'You will not get help, Roylott. You frightened everybody off.'

'Holmes?' Gasped the other man. 'Is it you?'

'In the flesh.'

'You will not have me!'

The voice was nearer, as if the Doctor himself tried to claw his way to our room.

'I have every intention to do it, and which is more, I have the necessary means. In several hours you will be arrested. I left the instructions with the constabulary.'

Something shattered on the wall separating us from the awful man.

'By the Lord Harry, I'll get back at you, you filthy scum!'

Holmes chortled delightedly, but his mirth was shortlived: a shot rang out, and a thud followed it immediately.

He swore, and tried the door.

It stayed closed.

Someone has locked us in, and for once in his illustrious career, Holmes couldn't burgle us out.

The next day, after we were let out and the official investigation run its course, we sat with our client at a table in the very inn we'd so gladly left the night before. As Holmes pointed out, it couldn't be harmed by a little negative publicity.

'You owe us nothing but the cost of the tickets.'

She blushed slightly. After a sleepless night and an embarrassing confession her face was drawn and pinched, but vigour and will burning in her eyes promised a full recovery.

'I am so sorry for the door, Mr. Holmes. I just thought that if it escaped...'

'It's nothing. It even convinced Sergeant Mallory that we haven't murdered your stepfather.'

Poor Mallory had to deal with an impatient Holmes, a girl frightened out of her wits, and yours truly who had had not a wink of sleep.

We took our leave of her and went to the station.

'That was all rather anticlimactic, old fellow, don't you find?'

'We have almost been set up for a murder.'

Being almost murdered ourselves was rarely a concern with him after it didn't happen.

'So we have. Roylott was a clever one, to place his revolver there. Though why did he think I would not find it...'

'He had your reputation in mind. I am told readers react to a felon killed by an investigator - ambiguously.'

I said it carelessly, too exhausted to consider my words' impact.

'I say,' Holmes drawled out speculatively. 'They prefer punishment dealt by fate.'

'Yes,' I smirked derisively. General public. We'd make excellent Romans.

'And some gothic gloom and doom.'

'...Yes. Since when do you pay any attention...'

'And exhotic beasts, family drama, and weird poisons.'

'Well, it did have poisoned claws.'

'Which any chemist worth his salts would identify on first sight. This apothecary they have is really a shame to his profession.'

I had to concur.

'Anyways, you ought not to give them tips how to commit crimes.'

'I thought you liked mental stimulation?'

'But not of the repetitive nature.'

I sighed.

'Fine. If I ever publish the disaster, I shall gloss over some details.'

I could see, however, that that was not enough. Something was brewing in my friend's mind. That was why I'd never let him to edit my accounts; in his quest to conceal confidential details and maintain logic, he suggested some highly improbable substitutions.

'No! Here's how it will go...'

Next Christmas, I thought sourly, I shall buy him Arabian Nights. The inscription will read: 'To the only private consulting detective and a hopeless romantic, from his friend and accomplice, with patience.'

I stumbled across the threshold to the compartment, lost in my meditation. Holmes caught me by my whole shoulder, though it required an uncomfortable twist on his part. Righting me, he smiled minutely again, yawned and settled into his seat, dozing off with no case to keep him awake.

Well.

Maybe patience was not the very word I'd use.


	6. Six honest serving men

1.

He was raised a standard good man: write to your parents, they'll be glad to hear from you; gypsies are nasty, avoid them; _England, home and beauty_.

The standard is a whetting stone, often applied to wrong edges. Most people are polished into cylinders: hard, colourless, murky, easily stocked together. He, on the other hand… His count of game suggests a cool-headed gambler. No stranger to violence, given _and_ taken. Cuts a dashing figure, but doesn't indulge in women's graces or men's rivalry. His views on honour are dated, almost obsolete.

"Colonel Moran to see you, Sir."

"Let him in."

2.

"He was raised a good man. A mite authoritative, nothing a good wife wouldn't cure… I heard he became quite self-righteous in his years among the savages."

"Hasn't he paid you a visit?"

"No, he hasn't, strictly speaking. And won't, he's already off to his research again. Poor chap; I thought his heart would break there in my churchyard."

"Perhaps it did."

"At least he won't get killed."

"Killed?"

"Oh. Um. Ms. Brenda considered him a dear friend, so I thought he was in danger by association."

"He was."

"Still is, to my knowledge."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Pray for him, Father."

3.

He was raised a good man, no doubt. I knew his parents. A good man, but a dreamer, and you cannot afford _that_ today. When my foolish daughter caught his eye, I had mixed feelings. Then again, he had nothing to gain from it, and nothing I wouldn't be able to win by court, so I let them play.

Only there's a pattern we have here, an old one, for every true gentleman and every true lady. Aye, even for that rascal Hugo, or they'd've burned his portrait long ago.

We don't need to read Shakespeare, we live it.

4.

"I raised him a good man. A trustworthy one. There was nothing anybody could buy him with – he knew I would damn him to Hell myself. He found himself a decent girl. They were going to marry."

"Forgive me. Please forgive me."

"I was saving off for their wedding; he used to laugh at me, mother, I'm not the Prince of Wales. Did you know, he wanted so badly to go to the Army, I had to haul him off a ship once?"

"Mrs. West, visiting hours are over, ma'am."

"May you rot for what you did, Colonel."

"I shall."

5.

He was raised a good man. Probably.

The dearth of what I _can_ tell about this character teases my mind; is he audacious, or simply craves redemption with all fibres of his soul? Has he committed any definable crime? Is he a puppet, or a puppeteer? Is he capable of replacing Moriarty?

Dare I trust him?

Is he still alive?

He forces me to guess on a hunch; he escapes logic's clutches like an eel.

Although, to do that, he has to use logic himself. Instinct wouldn't hold him afloat for any length of time.

Another piece of the puzzle.

6.

"One can be certain he wasn't raised a good man, if he were raised at all."

"Are you insulting my masterpiece? He had a very detailed background."

"Evidently, since you wouldn't be sitting here otherwise. Still, the man's better off dead; I was becoming bothered by the sway he had over you."

"I admit, the company he kept was anything but pleasant."

"Company, nothing. His quirks! His outrageous hobbies! His accent!"

"His most treasured achievements!"

"Modesty is a virtue some of us acquire later than others."

"And some don't. My darker side willed out."

"Appalling, Sherlock. Pitiful. Disgusting. A _goatee_?"


End file.
